Endgame
by The Legend of Chocolate
Summary: [One-Shot] They're so different in every possible way that it made falling in love much harder, much deeper and much more painful than they thought it would be. - gameverse WishfulShipping .:rated T for language:. *for the PokeWrite Challenge #3: Gym Leader Shippings*


_UPDATE 23/6/2013: 'Endgame' has placed 2nd in PokeWrite's Challenge #3 with a score of 10/10. ^_^ Thanks for all the reviews, guys!_

**[A/N:**** This is my entry for the PokeWrite forum's writing challenge #3. :) Hope you'll enjoy it!  
****Universe: Game.  
****I take no credit whatsoever for this idea. Person I took it from: you know who you are.  
****No, I am not an anti-WishfulShipper. I used to be, but frankly, it's starting to grow on me.  
****The original concept of this story involved MangaNegaiShipping, BurningLeafShipping, SouryuuShipping, heroes, blizzards, eternity, and an ungodly amount of angst. Unfortunately, the story was getting so long and confusing that I eventually lost interest in it and decided to shorten it to this... thing.****]**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Pokémon.**

* * *

**Endgame**

by TLoC

* * *

_Tick_

_When you're involved in a perilous game of cat-and-mouse, there is no time to stop and rest – no time to slow down and rethink a dozen strategies to evade your pursuer_

_Tock_

* * *

Her long, luscious indigo-hued hair sculpts her face and cascades down her back in a sleek sweep to her waist. There, it billows out behind her like a thick cloud of smoke, but now, practically running for her life, Iris has never resented her prized hair more. It has never felt more oppressing; more restrictive.

Gradually, her footsteps slow to a halt as she reaches out, palm outstretched, to rest against a nearby tree. _You get one minute,_ she instructs herself sternly, bending down briefly to re-tie her shoelaces. _One minute to rest._ And so she sinks to the ground with an exhausted groan, panting heavily and attempting wildly to regain her breath. Her previously escalating heart rate gradually slows into a steady throb, and just as she feels her muscles begin to relax, her sharp hearing detects the sounds of footsteps clattering against the ground.

"Iris!"

The prepubescent voice laced with anxiety rings out into the quiet night air, striking fear into Iris's heart. Frantically, she scrambles to her feet, preparing to dash away once again, but her reaction is a second too late.

"_Iris!_" The young boy, barely ten years old, bursts through the trees in a flurry of leaves and glistening raindrops. Worry and tension crease his eyebrows, but the moment his gaze falls onto her petite figure, they are replaced by a grin of ecstasy. "Found you!"

Panic swirls rapidly through her, and despite the resigned recognition that plagues her heart, she makes a last-ditch attempt to escape. This, however, is to no avail, as his alabaster-pale arm swiftly snakes out and seizes her cappuccino-dark one.

"Iris!" Pale green orbs stare widely at her, pleading her to stop. "I'm sorry, okay?"

_He isn't_, she wants to retort.

Don't all political disputes start with cooking contests? she thinks sarcastically. Don't they all start with the pale-skinned boy who effortlessly whizzed through each round of the aforementioned contest, finally facing off against the dark-skinned girl in the finals and after a dazzling clash of their skills, clinched the coveted title of first place? Their dispute, once viewed as a worldly offence, now seems like a trivial matter. Silly. Petty. Childish. Words ring incessantly in her ears, and she flinches away from his touch. She can't stand admitting that she, the 'mature' one, behaved so childishly.

"Iris?" When she doesn't answer, he hesitantly steps closer to her, stretching out his hand in invitation.

"Please… Come home. I mean, your home," he amends hastily, afraid to infuriate her any further. After all, they are from Unovian cities far apart from each other, a fact she often reminds him of scathingly. "Come back to Opelucid City."

The adrenalin rush from the thrill of the chase that she experienced earlier seems to leave her, leaving her a drained shell. Exhausted and resigned, she finally allows her eyelids to flutter to a close as she takes his hand.

"Okay, Cilan."

When her heart starts to beat just the slightest bit faster, she obstinately ignores it.

* * *

_Tick_

_and you're barely conscious of anything except for the lush greenery of the surroundings, initially colourful and alluring, now melting away into a monotonous green blur_

_Tock_

* * *

They are polar opposites.

They are as different as day is from night.

They are ying and yang.

Her skin cannot be described in any other way – it is delicate and tanned, the perfect cover to mask the network of thin red veins just beneath the surface. Sun damage, the doctors proclaimed, attributing this _horrendous_ problem to the staggering hours she spent indulging in outdoor activities as a child. Whereas _his_ skin is so pale, so smooth, so _perfect_ that it is almost reminiscent of porcelain; a flawless, superficial sheet of tracing paper.

Cool and aloof, she carries herself with a confidence and self-esteem that would put even Cynthia, the Champion of Sinnoh, to shame. In stark contrast, he used to slouch as he walked, as though attempting to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Of course, that was the first little detail she took the initiative to change the moment they became friends, moulding him into the suave person he is today.

They're so different in every possible way that it made falling in love much harder, much deeper and much more painful than they thought it would be.

And so, as they stand across from each other in the aisle separating two rows of pews, the tension is doubled, along with the passion and the volume of the audience's raucous cheers when he tentatively lifts her veil. The two lovers who met as children. Is there anything quite as endearing or as iconic as such innocent, pure romance? Lust and want haven't coloured naivety; haven't complicated things. Yes, there is nothing more beautiful than the true love that exists between best friends. What's even more remarkable is the fact that they are complete opposites of each other. Think of all the hardships, the struggles, the obstacles that must have had to overcome in order to fall for each other! a romantic sitting in the second row whispers dreamily to her partner.

After all, 'opposites attract'.

This is the very thought resonating in their minds as the priest utters the fateful words, the groom leans in, she tilts her head up, and their lips meet after a hesitant moment of suffocating suspense.

Yet, something's wrong. She sees it in his eyes – his mesmerising pale-green eyes – and her heart instantly sinks into a dark, bottomless abyss. Something's definitely wrong. Something that Cilan's kisses have always been tinged with – a foreign, but usually soft and endearing quality – feels so _wrong_ this time. There's no other way to explain or define it.

Still, she brushes it off as her own reflection and they beam radiantly at each other as if nothing's wrong.

_(Two mirrors of each other, so alike and yet so different at the same time.)_

She loves Cilan. Cilan loves her. They love each other, and that's all that matters.

The slightest feeling of unease tugs at her heart all the way back down the aisle.

* * *

_Tick_

_as the once-exotic cacophony of merrily chirping insects and incessantly chattering stray animals merge into a melodious soundtrack to complement the rhythmic pounding of your feet_

_Tock_

* * *

They haven't had much to say during the ride to their honeymoon destination, and Iris attests this to nerves. Neither of them has experienced the glorious post-honeymoon-sex afterglow married couples claim to bask in, the same radiance that lingers even after the harsh wave of reality crashes over them and marks them as the crazy-in-love couples Iris and Cilan have always scoffed at.

Once in a while, their gazes will lock and a nervous giggle from each party will resound around the sleek limousine. The question of what in the world can be wrong will flash across their minds, before they will turn away and allow the awkward silence to resume.

After what seems like eternity, they arrive. For reasons unknown, every detail of the gargantuan villa she sees that day is painted in a negative light, even though she so desperately wants to treasure this moment forever. From the too-symmetrical pillared entrance boldly painted with a bright shade of apricot to the pots of attention-seeking flowers placed at regular intervals along the drive, it seems as if everything was doomed to fail from the start.

The master bedroom falls far beyond her expectations. A large four-poster bed reposes in the centre of the room, its mahogany posts draped with a thick, silky fabric. The last rays of sunlight filter in through the window, diffusing across the room and bathing them in the lukewarm sunset glow.

Those first, tingling seconds as the door clicks shut are the ones etched in the back of her mind for eternity. It's the first time they've been alone since the days of their adolescent puppy love, and the tension is skyrocketing. They gaze at each other, hypnotised, half-longing for either of them to make the first move, half-longing for this delicious, electrifying moment of waiting to last forever.

He takes her to bed, or tries to. The experience is so agonisingly _awkward_ that they have to end it almost immediately. Instead, they opt for cuddling affectionately as crazy-in-love couples always do, and they still awaken in the morning to be greeted by the overwhelming torrent of bliss.

Only… it isn't quite as blissful as she imagined it to be.

* * *

_Tick_

_but after you've covered a fair distance, exhaustion and boredom start to set in, hanging ominously over your head like a threat_

_Tock_

* * *

The exact time the sparks started fading away eludes her. Time is constantly ticking away on the enormous grandfather's clock that is positioned along the entrance hall of their house, and yet she remains oblivious to that fact. You can never run out of time, she says. Even when old age rips through your wizened body and your withered eyelids droop for the last time, time will continue to flow.

She isn't sure exactly when the bolt of realisation strikes her, informing her that the very thing she treasures most is slipping away as she speaks.

Being in a marriage devoid of sexual contact doesn't faze her in the slightest. Platonic love isn't in any way hazardous to health. After all, lust shouldn't define a healthy marriage. Thinking back, she grudgingly admits that with Cilan, she can barely imagine doing anything beyond kissing. It seems improper, somehow, like breaking a time-old taboo that has nothing to do with religion. Thus, it didn't come as much of a surprise when they couldn't bring themselves to merge into one. After all, light and darkness can – and will – never merge. Light doesn't conquer all darkness, and darkness doesn't vanquish all light, and so the best the two can do is live in an eternal tug-of-war, with neither side ever yielding.

It's a fact that she, never the most philosophical woman in the world, shrugs off nonchalantly. Years of being together have transformed both of them greatly. Cilan is now not only the Gym Leader of Striaton Gym alongside his two brothers, but also ranks among the most renowned chefs in the world, owing to an ingenious masterpiece that he perfected what feels like a millennium ago. Girls, captivated by his never-fading stunning looks, flock to their shared house with autograph books in hand, while rivals in cookery arrive hoping that some of her husband's gold dust will rub off on them. It's all she can do to bottle up her incensed rage and fend off the crowd.

As for Iris, her emotions have gradually ceased to pound at the surface of her soul like a hot, wet tidal wave, instead receding and solidifying into something firm and dry and sensible. She's just… Iris. Iris, the official Gym Leader of Opelucid City, the girl who once aspired to become the legendary Dragon Master every living organism would hear of for many millennia to come. The girl who eventually rationalised her dream at the age of sixteen and decided to tone it down into something firm and dry and sensible. The girl who became just as firm and dry and sensible.

Cilan is famous, and she's… Well, she's his wife, governing over her hometown. And they're happy. She loves him, and he loves her, and they're happy.

Besides, the voice in her head whispers to her in her darker moments, she's worked too hard at this to be unhappy.

Then why does she feel so empty?

* * *

_Tick_

_and just when you're starting to think that you've successfully given them the slip – just when you're starting to relax and grow careless – you hear what you least desire to hear in the entire diverse world of sounds_

_Tock_

* * *

Of course, he loves her, but he isn't _in_ love with her – at least, not anymore. She loves him, but she isn't _in_ love with him – at least, not anymore.

They lie in the field one night, their backs cushioned by a soft blanket of fallen leaves. The night sky towers over them, a vast vortex of perpetual darkness. A myriad of faintly glimmering stars are sprinkled randomly across it, but their eyes are fixated upon a single star – a mote among many. It starts as a tiny light-emitting speck of dust, before gradually escalating in size. The spark reaches the top of its arc through the air, pausing for a moment – hanging in a scarce moment of pure weightlessness – before plummeting back to Earth at breakneck speed. At last, as it enters the atmosphere, it starts to quiver. The entire world seems to stand still for a moment, trembling before its beauty, before it bursts into flame. Scalding blue tongues of the inferno engulf the meteor as it resumes its descent, touching, dancing, licking in a hypnotic rhythm.

At the precise moment that it vaporises, leaving behind no trace that it has ever existed, the indigo-haired woman's eyelids flutter to a close.

She doesn't have to reopen them to sense her husband glancing over at her. "What did you wish for?"

"Don't be silly. I didn't wish for anything. Wishes are for kids."

After a long, excruciating silence, he exhales sharply and leans over to nuzzle her neck. "Don't lie, Iris," he whispers in her ear. "You're not very good at it."

"I heard somewhere that lies are the best way to maintain a relationship," she retorts, idly fiddling with her hair.

"Life isn't a game," comes his response. "You can't just hit a replay button when you've made a mistake. It has to go on."

The cool breeze caresses her skin lightly and ruffles her hair, and the evergreen blades of grass sway in a captivating dance to a tempo only they can hear.

She wishes this moment of arrant peace can last forever, and so does he – but alas, nothing can.

He knows that she knows, and she knows that he knows that she knows.

But sometimes, knowing just isn't enough.

* * *

_Tick_

_you hear the sounds of footsteps behind you; of loud, menacing voices, and everything else simmers away into oblivion as the chase begins once again_

_Tick_

* * *

They both know the baby isn't his.

Smiling nurses bustle around the famous couple, flashing them understanding and knowing looks while catering to the indigo-haired wife's needs. Clad in a professional pristine white coat, the sonographer has her hand poised expertly above the probe. With a strained nod from Cilan, she commences the ultrasound, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration as she manoeuvres her way through the complex labyrinth of fuzzy black-and-white.

Words leave her moving lips, but not one reaches Iris's ears. The mother is gazing apprehensively up at the 'father', whose face remains impassive and consistently tilted away from her, perhaps to avoid looking at her. He does break through the steely facade to twinkle at the sonographer's description of the blurry, indecipherable curves depicted on the screen, but they both know that it's merely another impenetrable layer of his mask.

'Stony' is the only word she can think of to describe his face as they make their way back to the car. It mars his otherwise handsome features, and a bolt of trepidation zips through her. She has never seen him this angry before, and the prospect of further enraging him isn't in any way appealing. Hence, they sit next to each other in the blistering cold morning air, side by side but not quite touching. The threat to their relationship hovers ominously between them – or, more accurately, at her abdomen – as if waiting for either of them to break the silence...

Finally, he makes the first move. Turning tentatively to face her, his face breaks into a loving smile. "She's beautiful, Iris," he murmurs with the voice that used to send shivers of ecstasy down her spine. "Absolutely beautiful." He kisses her forehead adoringly, and of course, she can't resist those winsome puppy-dog eyes.

Her heart swells until she swears she can feel the cracking of her ribs, and then implodes in on itself from love. Intense, heart-wrenching love cascades through every fibre of her body, and she collapses into his open arms, weeping, weeping and weeping like never before. Momentarily pushing away the bittersweet resentment clouding his heart, he pulls her into a protective embrace, where she lies, spent, like a jaded feather coming to a rest. Never, _ever_ has she loved someone the way she loves Cilan at this moment.

Opposites attract, but can it keep them together?

Well... Perhaps it can.

* * *

_Tick_

_but we're trapped in an eternal stalemate, with no way of getting to the endgame_

_Tick_

* * *

Cilan was wrong. Life _is_ a game – not a complex web of rules, manipulation and deception that many so tirelessly adhered to, but a chess game.

You begin with a complete set of pieces, one side black and the other white, and an empty space lying in the middle of the black-and-white-checkered board, waiting in anticipation to be conquered. The future stretches perennially ahead of you, as pure and uncertain as a blank sheet of paper. The ultimate outcome of the game may or may not rest on the first move executed during the opening. The middlegame follows quickly after, in which pieces advance mercilessly across the board, seeking to attack and capture, while the players rack their brains persistently for a good strategy to part the way for a clean victory. Tactics are exhibited, shrewdness is allowed to run free, and both sides harbour a single target in their minds: the king. When few pieces are left strewn across the battlefield, the endgame commences. In chess, the endgame is what truly matters most. Kings, which were hid behind the shield of pawns during the other phases of the game due to the constant threat of checkmate, are now properly brought into play, and those faithful guards that are often regarded as useless are promoted to the most important pieces on the board. The game only ends when either side is left with no more legal moves to pull off; no more tricks up their sleeves – checkmate.

That lonely night in the forest at the adolescent age of ten, Cilan made the first move by extending his hand to her. He apologised to Iris for coming off as so smug during that region-wide cooking contest, and she, in return, accepted his apology. That was the opening.

They ran into stalemate in the midst of their middlegame, forever ensnared within a love that wasn't romantic, friendly, or in fact, anything. It was indescribable, and neither of them knew how to proceed.

Somehow, they made it out and reached the endgame, in which Iris found herself caught up in an illicit love affair with a lover whom she couldn't remember. Sparks started flying again between her and Cilan, but whether or not they were romantic remains an enigma to Iris.

And now they're in stalemate again, wondering to no end about how they'll be able to live on like this.

The clock is ticking away again with no reciprocal _tock_, as if replaying the same second over and over again for the rest of eternity.

Fairy tales always end with a "happily ever after". It's an unspoken rule, and what exactly happens after the "happily ever after" remains a grey area. They never elaborate on whether or not Cinderella cheated on the prince, or if Snow White sunk into depression while her Prince Charming became an alcoholic.

Light doesn't conquer all darkness, and darkness doesn't vanquish all light, and so the best the two can do is live in an eternal tug-of-war, with neither side ever yielding.

In the twilight of darkness, she takes on the role of Rapunzel, doomed to be imprisoned within the ugly, beautiful stalemate of their indescribable love forever.

But maybe, in a world in which black and white can never truly be together, it's all they can ask for.

* * *

_Tick_

_and my love for you is like a run-on sentence that will never end_

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

* * *

**Written 19 May 2013**

**Published 3 June 2013**

**Thanks for reading! Please review ^_^**

**~TLoC**


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